


Letters to Weisshaupt

by sewerpigeon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle, Canon Compliant, Darkspawn, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Emotions, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grey Wardens, Letters, Light Angst, Long-Distance Relationship, Mages, POV First Person, POV Original Character, Post-Blight, Reunions, Separations, Spoilers, True Love, Wartime, pov switch in last chapter, until its not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon
Summary: “Dear Alistair,A drunk, an apostate, and a forsaken heir walk into a keep…Thinking about it, it does sound like the setup to an excellent joke, but unfortunately matters are quite the opposite of funny.”———Six months after the defeat of the Archdemon, the mage Ingrelda Surana has been made Warden-Commander, sent to Vigil’s Keep to rebuild the Grey Wardens against the lingering, and suspiciously altering, darkspawn threat.  Her love and fellow Warden/Ex-Prince Alistair has been called away on duty to the fortress at Weisshaupt, but the two have faced greater dangers than distance, and Ingrelda is intent on keeping him informed on her station, both as partner and fellow Warden, as well as keeping informed on Alistair’s end, for the same reasons.  But there is a merciless hurt in not knowing what is truly happening with the other.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have recently completed the main Origins campaign and have been embarking on Awakening, and so far I have had this fun internal monologue for my Warden, particularly because she and Alistair had become an item, but since the main game epilogue said about him being called to Weisshaupt, I’ve been imagining this whole time my Warden Ingrelda recounting this campaign to him and I thought making a fic on those letters would be a satisfying way to go about that.
> 
> There will be Awakening Spoilers! I say that because even though the game has been out for 10 years, it’s certainly my first time experiencing the Dragon Age saga, and I definitely am trying to avoid spoilers for myself (this includes the other games which I have not yet played so please don’t spoil me either haha).
> 
> Meta-wise I never write in this sort of format or even the first person so I’m looking forward to the shift in mindset really. Quarantine has completely turned my sense of creativity into a sense of pulling teeth, so really I’m just excited to be making anything at all. Hope everyone else is hanging in there best you can if you’re really struggling, and maybe my little fic ideas can provide some temporary solace in the meantime. Hope you enjoy!

Dear Alistair, 

A drunk, an apostate, and a forsaken heir walk into a keep…

Thinking about it, it does sound like the setup to an excellent joke, but unfortunately matters are quite the opposite of funny. I made it to Vigil’s Keep with the help of my guide Mhairi, a soldier eager to dedicate her skills to the Wardens. We found the keep overrun with darkspawn. There wasn’t much time to ask questions, but we were told there was an ambush, and Seneschal Varel had been captured. I know you probably think that doesn’t sound right, and neither did we. The darkspawn have never shown much affinity for organized assault, let alone hostages. But I didn’t want to think about it then.

Mhairi and I fought our way through the keep, freeing what survivors we could find, one of whom was a mage named Anders, who was apparently only meant to stay the night at the Vigil with the now-conveniently-dead Templars in charge of him. I know we’ve had our qualms with rogue mages before, but they’ve also proved as good an ally as any Circle mage. I know Anora agreed to instate independence for the Circle, but it’s obvious the pervasive prejudices for mages is not going to go away overnight. I still get shady looks even as Warden-Commander (which still sounds weird by the way). And the whole elf thing doesn’t help either—but that’s not what I’m worried about.

We hadn’t time to waste in the Keep, so I had Anders accompany Mhairi and I because at the time it was good enough for me that he was alive and capable and willing to fight the darkspawn. And then you’ll never guess who we found next: good ol’ Oghren! I have never been happier or more surprised at being happy to see a drunken, familiar face. He and his old flame Felsi had settled down, apparently, but obviously not for long. He told me he had come to the Vigil to join the Wardens—can you believe it? Oghren, a Warden. I mean, I guess it’s not that unbelievable considering his help against the Blight, but it just seems like those two things shouldn’t belong in the same sentence. But regardless, there was something relieving about finding him there, ~~maybe just the confidence in knowing he is a valuable fighter and friend amongst so many strangers~~.

_((Does that sound childish? Are these the thoughts worthy of a Commander?))_

The four of us then made it to the roof at last, and the young man who fled past us at the gate had been right: Varel was prisoner to the darkspawn. I know you’re going to think I’m mistaken by what I tell you next, or that you’re mistaken in what you’re reading, but believe me when I say the Emissary holding Varel, it—he?—spoke. Intelligibly. It was jarring and might have thrown me off entirely had not the rush of adrenaline been strong enough to take precedent.

We fought him and his subordinates; he was ordering them. I think he called himself “The Withered.” ~~Or maybe it was “The Wizard” and the darkspawn just have issues pronouncing their S’s and Z’s.~~

 _((Ugh now_ **I’m** _the one making nervous jokes.))_

It was eerie, to say the least, and it felt very wrong to not only hear the darkspawn speak aloud but to understand him—it? It doesn’t make sense to see this level of organization after the Archdemon’s defeat. They never “ambushed;” they just raided. There seems to be some development of autonomy among those who survived the fight, and I have an ominous feeling about what about them we don’t know. ~~What if the Archdemon wasn’t the greatest threat after all? It’s hard to imagine what’s worse than a Blight, but if the darkspawn thrive after such a defeat…~~

_((Calm down; no point freaking about it right now. If I start to lose it then what hope do the armies have?))_

But we did succeed in rescuing Varel and quickly set about restoring some sense of order to the Vigil. The dwarf masons tell me we need stronger stones for walls, we need more merchants for more trade, our numbers are still so few… I feel as though we are hiding from a flood inside a castle of sand. I don’t mean to sound so hopeless, and I’d never say as much to the others here, but everything about this situation is unprecedented. I thought we would be dealing with nothing more than Blight clean-up, but maybe it’s my own foolishness convincing me it would really have been so easy, that the worst was over.

~~I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound so doomsday about it all. I guess I’m still just shaken by these recent developments. And it’s not that I don’t have faith in our soldiers, but I just hate being less sure than ever of what to expect from the enemy, and while I figure it out I have to put on the Commander face and pretend I’m confident in what I’m doing.~~

I’ll figure it out, though—we will. All of us. We’re still Wardens, and they’re still darkspawn.

Anyway, so with Oghren being the aforementioned drunk, Anders as the apostate, that just leaves the heir. But before I tell you about that, I need you to remember just how good an ally and friend Zevran proved to be against the Blight in spite of our... introductory circumstances.

Rendon Howe had a son—well, he had a couple of children, but I had perhaps arrogantly assumed all of them had left the lands—either fleeing or by civilian persecution—after the Arl had been proved a traitor and slain. And it’s not that I was wrong, but I guess I just never assumed to encounter one of them coming back to this very Keep. But his son, Nathaniel Howe, felt a duty to reclaim some part of his family’s lost honor, and while he thought better of killing me, he was still captured after personally deciding to simply retrieve some of his family’s things.

The guards said it took four Wardens to take him down! I mean, come on, it took less than four Wardens to kill the Archdemon, so… I may or may not have conscripted him. I know your immediate response is going to be disagreement. But what can I say? I guess I have a soft spot for men who are inspired to assassinate me. 

Sorry, I know that’s not funny. And I’m not making light of it; I really was impressed. Nathaniel’s skills have already proved an asset to our cause. I actually think you might truly like him, Alistair. He has a strong moral compass and doesn’t make nearly as many innuendos as Oghren (who still makes plenty, by the way) or Zevran had. 

This Anders on the other hand… A bit cheeky to say the least, and my men aren’t exactly jumping to welcome an apostate, but regardless of his rather brazen affect, Anders too has proven quite capable, and at least he is as concerned about the darkspawn as the rest of us. His vendetta with the Chantry has to take a backseat. Maybe he only agreed to become a Warden as a defense against further persecution from the Templars, but I suppose at this point any reason is a good enough reason. And in my defense, I don’t see much sense in killing capable fighters when we are already short on soldiers. Unprecedented times call for unprecedented measures, right? General Garavel makes it no secret he doesn’t exactly subscribe to the same logic, but in the end he has respected my verdicts. He probably thinks I’m too soft. Am I too soft? If I am, I’m going to say it’s your fault; I hope you’re okay with that. 

_((Cute, dumb bastard just HAD to make me start feeling things.))_

Anyway, those two, alongside Mhairi and Oghren, made four aspiring recruits, but unfortunately poor Mhairi was the only one not to survive the Joining. I know she’s not the first, and she won’t be the last, but there was something refreshing about her enthusiasm towards serving the arling, her loyalty to her own sense of right, and her assurance in how she meant to go about following that sense. 

_((I’ve never been so sure of anything, not like that. I ask too many questions.))_

But perhaps the dark side of it is that her eagerness to serve was really a weakness that could have been exploited by the malevolence of the darkspawn. I’ve made sure to send her family my condolences and what accommodations the Vigil could afford to honor their daughter’s service.

There is a lot of clean-up still left in the wake of the invasion, and I know I heard one of the guards mention something about a noble or two on their way to the Vigil for... something. I’m sure Varel will catch me up. So I suppose I should get back to it. Please be careful in the Anderfels. I know it’s dangerous enough there as it is, and I know we’ve each survived the impossible already, but something really bodes ill about these… evolving darkspawn. All I can really accredit is a feeling, but how often has that been enough?

Tell the men at Weisshaupt to pay extra mind, to be extra prepared. I’m sure they’d be more receptive to you warning them than I anyway. I have a second feeling that most of the senior Wardens have less than a lot of faith in me as Commander still. Old habits die hard, I guess, but as long as we strive to die harder, then I’m perfectly okay with that.

Please be careful. I promise I’ll do the same.

Love,

 ~~Grel~~ Warden-Commander Ingrelda Surana (I guess I should try to get used to signing that).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (In case it’s not clear, the right-aligned parentheses are her inner monologue and not actually written in the letter!)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mild trigger warning for allusions to a suicide

Dear Alistair,

We’ve made it to the City of Amaranthine—Nathaniel, Oghren, Anders, and I. Varel had told me of a Grey Warden absent from the Vigil during the darkspawn assault; his name is Kristoff and he had left to investigate the remaining presence of darkspawn despite the end of the Blight. We’re staying at The Lion and the Crown tonight, the same inn this Kristoff stayed at prior to his disappearance. The keeper gave me his key and all we found were his stuff abandoned; clearly he left in a hurry.

I found a letter on the bedside table from an Aura, whom I assume is his wife, although the innkeeper said he seemed friendly with a patron girl, but she insisted it was exclusively friendship. I hope if only for Aura’s sake we find him, although I could never promise in what state.

If I had known about such a quest beforehand I never would have allowed a Grey Warden to set out alone, or any soldier for that matter, but I suppose I just have to hope he is the capable type to undertake a solo quest and not the stupid type. Regardless, I look forward to hearing any information he may have discovered about the darkspawn.

_((That’s not too cold, is it? At what point does compartmentalizing become heartlessness? I know I would be little better off if I were not to hear from Alistair with no explanation… No, I don’t want to think about that.))_

His notes indicated his next destination was the Blackmarsh, but at this point I’m afraid it may be several days before we can move further on his trail. I hate that we don’t know what the darkspawn could be planning—the fact that they’re planning at all is cause enough for concern—but I have some Commanderly duties here in the city. Nothing too exciting but regrettably necessary. The paperwork alone would be an effective repellent for leadership. I think you had the right idea passing up the throne.

_((He doesn’t need to know about the conspirators. Not right now anyway. He’s probably chuffed enough knowing about Nathaniel’s previous intentions. Besides, there’s always a chance these letters can be intercepted; why risk making things worse by revealing I know something I’m not supposed to know?))_

We’ve come to the city on other matters as well: Captain Garavel informed me of a pair of hunters who’ve stumbled upon a darkspawn tunnel to the Deep Roads, who have since told me it was in the Knotwood Hills; and, Woolsey’s associate Mervis of the Merchants Guild has reported violent caravan attacks on their route through the Wending Woods. We are headed east then, likely to the Woods first since, for one thing, it’s the nearest destination on the way to the others, and, get this, I’m running a favor for Wynne.

She’s been here in the City of Amaranthine, looking for a woman named Ines who, Wynne says, is needed to offer a rational perspective for a meeting with the Circle—although based on Wynne’s tone, she and this Ines seem to be either mutual antagonists or in the midst of a lovers’ spat—hard to discern. All the same, our friend looks quite well, even with all things considered. Our respective tasks could not let us chat long, but it was a breath of fresh air to see her again. She asked about you, by the way. I said Weisshaupt was well off having you to counteract the energy of the overly-political First. She appreciated the remark, and sends you, and us, her best.

I’m not the only one on a mission here either; Anders has mentioned something about business in the city, and though I hesitate at what it could be considering his relationship with both the Circle and the Chantry, it seemed serious, and since I did conscript him to fight with us, I feel at the very least it is fair to help him tie any loose ends from his past indiscretions.

_((It was about the search for his phylactery. I’m not surprised he wants it destroyed considering his history, and it’s not as though I haven’t helped in such a quest before. I still think of Jowan, to be honest. I never thought he was malign; just a bit of an idiot. I’d be lying if I didn’t occasionally wonder what I could have done differently to save both our hides._

_Maybe Garavel is right; maybe I am too merciful. Am I really so naive to think of sparing lives that might be worth redeeming?_

_Is that why I couldn’t bring myself to lay the final blow upon Loghain myself, even after everything the bastard had done?_

_I gave the kill to Alistair; I know avenging Duncan was important to him, and I told myself that was the reason I stepped back at the time. But what else have I been telling myself?_

_It’s not as if I’ve never wondered about where my own phylactery lies. But here is Anders, hunting his down; the woman in the alley must have been some old friend or accomplice at least, having discovered a warehouse right here in the city where his phylactery is supposed to be stored. It’d be another lie to myself if I were to say I don’t wonder if mine is there as well._

_I can’t guess the odds on something like that. Even if it is, what would I do? I feel like now as Warden-Commander, destroying my own phylactery would be counterproductive. It’s been hard enough to gain the trust of nobles and commoners and colleagues alike. If I were to perform such a rebellious act now, it would look as though I was a person in power who didn’t want anyone to have power over **me** , that I didn’t want the liability of being watched as if I had something I didn’t want to be seen._

_But then again, is it really “trust” the people would have in me if they felt I **needed** to be watched? I suppose there is the loophole that if someone **else** were to destroy it…_

_Oh, dammit, my quill’s been dripping on the page.))_

Also, the Captain of the Guard here wanted to speak with me about problems with smugglers. Woolsey has made it quite clear the trade industry is precipitous these days as is; not to mention it would at the very least be a bad look to be told of this and then do nothing. It feels small in the face of everything, but I know the potential of a situation like this. If we are to recruit soldiers to once again fight the hordes, we don’t need the arling compromised by local detriments.

Nathaniel has personal business here as well; an old serving man at the Vigil informed him his sister Delilah still lives after Nathaniel thinking she’d perished long ago. It’s only right to help him find her while we are here.

And Oghren: Felsi had come to the Vigil before we left, and it seems his family problems were a little deeper than I had assumed. He is a father; news I would have congratulated him on had not Felsi come to suggest he had simply run away from domestic duties. Obviously I don’t have the full picture, and Oghren hasn’t said a word about it since, and I’m never quite sure what stage of drunkenness is best to approach him with personal matters. Not that I need to get myself involved—not as his Commander, anyway, but as a friend, I worry. 

So I’m sure it goes without saying our trek east is to be delayed by at least another day or two. I hate to put even more time and distance between us and Kristoff and getting closer to the truth around the darkspawn, but it won’t do any of us any better to rush out of here with unfinished business and ill-preparations either. Leave every place better than you found it, right? I heard that somewhere, maybe Leliana or one of the many Chantry members we’ve crossed paths with.

_((The Chantry…_

_Here in Amaranthine’s Chantry, there was a woman praying to find her missing husband. I didn’t want to interrupt such a private moment but I heard her say his name, Kerrem, and thought I’d head back to the tavern to see if there might be any direction from there._

_There wasn’t much word on him but I’d happened upon an ale-stained note by pure luck of a glance in the corner. There was a sort of paper trail that led me to discover this man’s corpse hanging from the rafters of a home his notes had said he wanted to restore. His last thoughts on paper were being unworthy of his wife._

_I hated delivering such news in a holy place. I’ve never been one for religion, but I’m also not one to thieve someone’s sense of guidance and comfort. But then, I suppose, at least she had already been sitting down._

_I have seen so much death, even beyond my time as a Warden. It is not as though I’ve grown numb to it, but I know that there is nothing to be gained by dwelling on what is unchangeable. But in particular, Kerrem’s death gave me pause—his note, feeling so unworthy of the woman he loved due to his own shortcomings… It had reminded me of something Alistair had said, back when we had met the Guardian of the Urn of Sacred Ashes: that he’d wished he had died in Duncan’s place, and that all would have been better off._

_I never asked him about this. At the time there was obviously the immediate matter of the Ashes, and after that I suppose things just started moving faster and more pressing that it fell to the back of my mind. And even then, it would have been easy to write it off as something said in grief. He loved Duncan as a father; how many people feel guilt at the death of a loved one for some reason or another? So, I’ve never brought it up. But at seeing what happened to Kerrem…_

_Sometimes I can see Alistair undervaluing himself in not a dissimilar way. That he would rather Duncan have lived than him at Ostagar, as though he was unaware the whole time of all he was doing for Ferelden against the Blight._

_I understand why he would never have wanted to be king, and I can’t deny my own selfish relief in avoiding what would have been one tragedy or another between us, but I believe if he had wanted to join Anora, he could have been great and beloved as a leader. But he never believed he was capable of so much._

_When Riordan told us why a Grey Warden must be the one to kill an Archdemon, he was quicker than me in volunteering himself. It was selfless bravery Riordan saw, but I had the feeling at the time it was his way of thinking he’d make it up to Duncan—and to keep from losing Riordan, another Grey Warden he respects and admires... Or me. As if he believed was the most expendable._

_I don’t think he would go out of his way to endanger himself, it was never that. After all, look at what he had accepted to do to keep us both alive—although that’s something else we don’t talk about. Not that there’s anything to talk about. The three of us did what we had to, and now it’s done. What’s to say? But it’s not unnoticeable that when danger is on the horizon, he wants to take the brunt of it._

_I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking or projecting or something. I guess I just want to make sure he feels like he doesn’t need to compensate for anything. I don’t want him to believe he’s less than anything, than everything… At least to me. Is it wrong of me to think he thinks as much of himself?_

_I don’t know. It’s late, isn’t it? It’s easy to start getting lost when you’re tired. This will seem silly in the morning.))_

~~I miss you~~

~~I hope you know that~~

~~I just want to make sure y~~

~~Since it’ll be my last letter for a time, I’ll tell you that you are my~~

I will write again as soon as I get back. I’m sure there will be many a new tale to tell. Try not to miss me more than normal, and I promise I’ll do the same.

Love,

Ingrelda


	3. Chapter 3

Alistair,

I hope you’re receiving this letter not long after I write it; I know it’s been some time between this one and the last, and I wanted to start by letting you know I’m alright, but things have been revealing themselves to be darker by the day. I’ve recruited a fourth Grey Warden: a Dalish elf named Velanna. We met her in the Wending Woods where we had traveled to investigate the assault on the trading caravans—it turns out these things were not mutually exclusive. Velanna had been behind the attacks, but it was, to put it particularly mildly, a misunderstanding. It was a setup, by the darkspawn. They had made her believe it was the human caravans responsible for the disappearance of her sister, Seranni.

Since I first made it to Vigil’s Keep, it has been so hard for my mind to wrap around the notion of such orchestration from the darkspawn. I don’t like how we are starting to have to think about them nearly as equals in terms of enemy planning. It almost doesn’t feel right to call them darkspawn anymore. Has it still been so quiet on your end? I guess that’s a good thing. Maybe if they haven’t spread from Amaranthine yet there’s still the chance we can stop them before they really get started.

I wanted to help Velanna find Seranni, and we accompanied her to investigate the Silverite Mine to find there was a sort of base for the darkspawn, complete with prison cells.

 _((Maybe I don’t need to disclose that we discovered this by waking up_ **_inside_ ** _one of these cells, not that I want to keep it a secret from Alistair but maybe just in case someone else reads this letter the Wardens don’t exactly need to know their Commander was knocked out and captured; not the most inspiring look for a leader._

_Maker, I wish we could communicate without feeling so surveilled.))_

There seems to be so much more to all of this than I was even beginning to suspect. Further into the mines, we discovered a crude laboratory belonging to someone—something calling itself the “Architect,” whom we later met. Well, it was more of a passing glance, really, but it looked like no other darkspawn we’ve seen before. I’m not even sure how to explain it; it’s like it was more “evolved.” It sure has some major role to play in this darkspawn “awakening.”

Regardless, I found the Architect’s notes. They eerily reminded me of Avernus’s tower at Soldier’s Peak. Much of it was illegible, and what I could extrapolate was vague and bizarre, but there was enough said upon discovering the Architect’s “subjects.” I’m not sure what they used to be, or were supposed to be: ghouls or undead or something else… I’m not sure what brand of experiments they had been subjects for.

_((They looked like us…))_

Seranni might have been one of them, maybe a more successful attempt than the ones we had to kill. Velanna couldn’t reason with her sister; it seemed her mentality had shifted entirely to align with the darkspawn, this Architect in particular. It left the mine with her and what was most likely another “experiment”—a dwarven woman—before we could learn much more.

The whole thing was surreal, and I was sorry we couldn’t help Velanna’s sister, at least not then. That is why she wanted to undergo the Joining, so that as a Grey Warden she may hunt down the darkspawn to free Seranni, which was fair enough reason to me. I like to think you can never have too many mages on your side.

_((There was another Grey Warden beneath the ground, named Keenan, who had been captured. There was nothing we could do to save him; his legs were destroyed, but I swore to honor his last request to deliver his wedding ring to his wife, Nida, in Amaranthine, where we had to return anyway to deliver Mervis the news that trade should resume through the woods as normal._

_I stayed true to my word to Keenan but found his wife had done quite the opposite as I found her in the tavern quite well-acquainted with another man. I know it wasn’t my business but based on the awkward context, I had to ask. She told me she had more or less given up waiting on her husband who had been more eager to serve the Wardens than to ask how she felt about such a lifestyle change._

_I thought of just how easily humans seem to jump to the next convenient gratification before facing the discipline of any challenging situation—particularly with emotions. But there could be so much more to the story. It’s not as if I am of any position to judge anyone, but it just rubbed me the wrong way._

_I felt guilty about the human generalization immediately; I trust Alistair, I do—with all that I have. It wasn’t that this made me second-guess him. It just made me miss him, or rather reminded me of how much I already have been.))_

After Velanna’s Joining, we wasted no further time in following Kristoff’s trail to the Blackmarsh. This place was like a caricature of itself with the creepy, abandoned atmosphere, or at least that was my initial reaction for a while. The more we explored, the sadder the place began to feel. Slowly we put together the story of the baroness who had once governed this place, and her cruel means of sustaining herself and her power; it wasn’t entirely unlike what we learned of Flemeth’s methods for the same goal.

There were sad stories of families struggling and fighting themselves and each other even before the village had been abandoned. To see the fragments of these old memories—the map to a cache of a merchant who died of guilt, a proposal scavenger hunt between a couple long broken—made it all the more unsettling, as if providing that tangible connection between the past and the present. I don’t deny the rumors of this place being haunted, but it’s by its own history and pain rather than any ghosts.

But of course we weren’t there to ruminate, and probably the biggest cause of suspected haunting of this place were the numerous tears in the Veil. The effects could be seen on the few creatures left in the marsh. It was not long after arriving that I began to make peace with the prediction we were not going to bring good news back to Kristoff’s wife, and as my companions and I ventured deeper, my suspicions proved correct.

I wish the mission had merely ended there, but it was only the beginning. Kristoff’s body had been a lure, and I fell for it. There was another talking darkspawn. It called itself the “First” (which is certainly ominous to say the least). It was spouting something about the plans of the “Mother” which my gut tells me it was referring to one of those horrid broodmothers we had fought in the Deep Roads (don’t tell me you don’t still have nightmares about that thing).

_((To think those tentacles could have torn my friends apart at any moment… But they didn’t, that’s what matters.))_

I’ve been wondering what relation the Mother might have to the Architect; from what little I’ve gathered, they’re both powerful “leaders” of some sort related to this darkspawn awakening. But whether they are collaborating, or rivals, or maybe somehow even the same being, I just don’t have enough to know that yet. And it’s killing me.

The First had laid the trap for us to send us into the Fade, but then it too was played the fool, coming along for the ride, which was apparently not part of its own plan but perhaps its Mother’s. The idea of a broodmother also having this new sapience is definitely an undesirable prospect, but it’s not something we’ve had to worry ourselves with just yet. The immediate issue was of course escaping the Fade. But it was different than when the Sloth Demon at the Circle Tower had captured us. They stayed with me and remained in control of their wits.

_((Something else I hate to think back on… It would have been so easy to have lost Alistair and the others to the Fade’s temptations. The idea of the enemy getting inside your mind is far worse than any physical confrontation… But I don’t need to think about that, and I won’t have to. We’re stronger than ever.))_

I thought there might be a way to mend the Veil tears from within, but as we were exploring we found the souls of Blackmarsh village that had been trapped there all this time. This Baroness had remained in control of their fates, imprisoning them beyond their own world and continuing her cruel practice of using the souls of others as her source of power. It was in this alternate Blackmarsh we met a spirit of the Fade who called himself Justice, for what proved to be obvious reasons as his aim was to help free the spirits of Blackmarsh. I don’t know if I ever took the time to explain to you not all spirits of the Fade are demons; there are some of virtue and purity, though I don’t have a full understanding of how one becomes the other. 

Anyway, it was the right thing to lend the aid of the Wardens in this fight as well. It was a surreal storm of the estate, not a big battle but definitely an important one for the villagers’ souls. It was here we fought the First as well, for it was siding with the Baroness—or rather, what revealed itself to be a Pride Demon under the guise of the Baroness. We defeated her, perhaps naturally as you might say, and she used the life force of the First to send all of us back through the portal—including Justice.

We don’t know if it was her intention or if he was merely collateral, but since we had first been sent into the Fade beside Kristoff’s body, the corpse was the only vessel available for the spirit of Justice. If for some reason talking darkspawn wasn’t creepy enough, you should try a fallen Warden rising to speak with you like a macabre puppet.

Actually, I felt mostly sorry for the spirit to have been trapped here in a plane he’s never before seen. But he was able to sense the Baroness had also come through the Veil, and portals had been torn open throughout the marsh. His abilities gave us the power to destroy them as we made our way back to the estate on this side of the Veil.

The Baroness had in fact come through with us, which she claimed was not intended but her ambitions were uninhibited at the thought of controlling this realm—something that might have had a shred of possibility, for the power she had gained from absorbing the villagers’ souls had allowed her to enter this realm without even needing a vessel.

But the Pride Demon inside her revealed its true form, and with Justice’s help we managed to defeat her once and for all. It all seemed to be over so quickly, but at the same time, by the end I felt ten years older. I hope this has given the souls of the Blackmarsh villagers a chance at final peace. Justice, however, as far as any of us can guess, has no way back to the Fade. But in the body of a Grey Warden, his sense of duty to continue the role of his vessel encouraged him to join us—of course, he didn’t exactly have to undergo the Joining, but I think this counts.

I get it sounds crazy, and like I’m trying to set up another joke about “a dead man walks into the castle…” And it was definitely an interesting conversation trying to inform Seneschal Varel and the others at the Vigil of this particular development. In retrospect, I can’t say I don’t understand the questioning of the villagers—you know as well as anyone I have a bit of a habit of recruiting the unlikely. I just have to figure out how to best tell Aura about Kristoff.

_((I am worried though, because I failed to seal the tears in the Veil at Blackmarsh…))_

I never thought I’d be able to put myself in your shoes, Alistair, but I understand completely why you never wanted to be king. This is proving so much more than I could have prepared for. Never once had I planned in my life to be someone with power—I spent half my life doing everything to revolt against anyone with power. Gathering the armies to face the Blight was one thing; it was a single goal, however major and complex. But to be Warden-Commander is a perpetual balancing act in which I feel I am always losing my footing.

The people are losing their trust in me—we’ve already had to deal with a rebellion in the courtyard. The farmers and peasants don’t feel as though we’re doing enough to help. I’m trying, I’ve already spread my men thinner than I probably should have. It just seems like the times when we’re most in need of unity are when we always end up even more divided. I couldn’t talk them down; there was a riot, and we had to fight back. This was worse than fighting the darkspawn; I killed the very people I promised to protect, because they didn’t believe I could.

I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you; the last thing the people need to see is me losing faith in myself. I know in many ways I am not doing this alone; my fellow Wardens, Varel, the soldiers behind me—and you, of course. But there’s no use denying that if something goes horribly wrong, I will be the only one to blame.

_((I can’t decide anymore what’s worth censoring. I’m frustrated, and I feel like Alistair is the only one who can see this from my perspective. I trust my recruits, but I don’t know how much respect they would lose for me if I were to confess to them this degree of self-doubt.))_

I know it sounds like things are getting pretty extreme over here, and despite my previous laments, I know the Wardens are capable of so much—even more with such unconventional recruits. I guess it’s not doing them justice to think so lowly of my own abilities.

_((That sounds like something Wynne would say to me.))_

I know both our duties have to hold precedent, especially in these times, but I’m just saying it wouldn’t be an unwelcome refreshment if I could see you.

Please be safe,

Ingrelda

P.S. I forgot to mention: I planted a rose bush by the portcullis. Garavel asked me what the point was and I told him it was just to serve as a reminder beautiful things can still be found in terrible times. I love you, but I also hate you because you’ve got me planting rose bushes and being sappy in letters. But mostly love, I promise.


	4. Chapter 4

My love,

_((This letter will have to be brief, although now it feels I have the most to say.))_

We have done what we can to prepare the Vigil. We sealed the tunnel leading to the Deep Roads far within the keep’s basements. I’ve given what valuable material I’ve found to the dwarves to bolster our walls and to Master Wade to make the best armor. I’ve spread my armies the best that I felt I could, spared the lives I knew would be proved worthy in their fight against the darkspawn. If there is anything more I could have done better to ensure our victory, it’s too late to try.

In the Knotting Hills, we discovered that a group of Broodmothers were breeding entire darkspawn armies, but we managed to kill them with the aid of a Legionnaire dwarf named Sigrun whose thirst for the death of darkspawn has already solidified how great a role she will play in the coming battle. She has a strong sense of honor, and so I myself am honored to have her on my side.

It was here also that we learned the darkspawn are divided into different factions, their infighting more brutal and almost personal as we ourselves did not discriminate to reach the Broodmothers’ nest. Some serve the Architect, and some serve the Mother—but I could not learn much more.

Sigrun would have undergone the Joining, but upon our return to the castle Varel has since informed me the darkspawn have fielded their armies throughout the arling. Captain Garavel says their numbers rival those of the Blight, if not greater. The nobles have come to express their fear, and now we have reached the turning point: I’ve had my men readied. We’re going to war.

But I am going to fight for the City of Amaranthine. The nobles have told me it is under attack already, and we can only afford sending a small number to their aid as the armies complete preparations here at the Vigil. I trust in these men, in Varel. They will fight hard for the keep, but I can’t stay here. I will not abandon the city to be destroyed, not after how I’ve fought to keep the people of the arling alive. Oghren, Sigrun, Anders, and the Captain will be the only ones to follow me. The others think it is a suicide mission, but you know better than anyone that we’ve faced such a death sentence before and come through.

But I am not naive. Spirits are high and our defenses are the best we could have made them, but I know too that hoping for the best is by no means guaranteeing it, and I understand basic math well enough to know the odds at Amaranthine do not favor us. 

Alistair, I know that if you were here, you would be the first one to stay at my side on this mission, but since you are so far, I know you are going to resent this choice of mine. I would feel the same way. But you know me better than any of the others here, and you have trusted before what seemed to be rash decisions of mine in crucial moments. At the very least, I know you understand why I am going to Amaranthine even without me trying to explain. All I ask is that you remind yourself of those reasons, and don’t indulge any feelings of guilt or anger, whatever happens.

I do not want this to be a farewell, but I will not deny that is a possibility. Even so, I feel as though everything I have ever wanted or needed to say to you has fled my mind as words tend to do in pressing circumstances. But there is one thing I will never forget, even as I stare into the maw of what might prove to be my Calling, and it is that I love you more than I could ever manage to say, more than I can even understand. But it is the one thing I feel I don’t need to understand; it is the one thing I have ever accepted without question. And I have no doubts that you feel the same; if anything you have always been better at expressing it than I ever could. 

That love is the strength I will carry with me as I enter the walls of Amaranthine. It is what will drive my magic and my sword. I will fight to see you again, but I will fight harder because I might not.

I love you always, however long that may be.

~~Ingr~~ Grel 

_((There are spots where the ink is smudged in places ringed from wet droplets now dried.))_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo i done made myself get a little weepy writing this slippin into character tbh lmao


	5. Alistair

_No._

It was the only word his inner monologue had been able to enunciate since her last letter. Alistair had already been doing his best to encourage what Wardens he could to lend their aid at Amaranthine—the only reason he hadn’t led a charge there himself was because he knew no one would continue to advocate as well for Ingrelda as he, despite her being Warden-Commander.

With each passing letter her tone had become more grave, and in turn Alistair had grown more frantic, restless in the halls of Weisshaupt to receive news and convince his senior Wardens to spare themselves—the arling was going to be under attack. But upon receiving her final letter—no, he wouldn’t think of it as that; it was her most recent letter—Alistair had crunched it into his fist in immediate, fearful frustration. Then he thought better, palming the page flat as he could against his desk, premature grief reminding him if she were lost to him forever, these would be her final words to him. These words would be all he’d have left.

_No._

Alistair’s hollowed gut had refilled at once with molten determination. He would not _let_ this be goodbye; every nerve ending screamed at him: _Go!_ But Amaranthine was weeks away on foot, maybe a few days shorter on horseback with minimal supplies. And he knew that by the time he had received Ingrelda’s last letter, surely whatever her and the arling’s fate had already passed.

_No. Don’t think about that._

There was no _time_ ; Alistair’s mind had already been racing, running through all routes and possibilities, and he wasted no time in deciding there was nothing to keep him at Weisshaupt any longer. He knew to travel alone would be unwise despite his drive to move as quickly as possible, so Alistair selected two capable Wardens specifically because he knew they would not ask questions or second-guess his choice in the matter. The last thing Alistair had any desire to waste effort on was justifying himself to those saying his duty required him to stay. The Wardens were important, but he’d already made peace long ago that regardless of his sense of responsibility, he could not deny Ingrelda would always take precedent in his heart. They had already sacrificed too much to keep each other alive for her him to lose her now—to the very darkspawn they had strove to destroy, no less.

Alistair and his companions had left with naught more than what would fit comfortably in their rucksacks and saddlebags, and mere hours after receiving Ingrelda’s letter, they were on the road to Amaranthine. He may not be in time to make a difference, he thought, but he was not going to wait for news of the arling to come. If this truly was goodbye, he was not going to find out through a third-party messenger. He had to find her himself, to see her no matter what state she was in.

It was as if he was somewhere far away on their journey, somewhere time stood still as he watched himself drive the horses like they were machines. He could hardly bring himself to rest or eat when forced to stop for the night. Absently, he registered the concern from his fellow Wardens’ faces, and part of him felt guilty for straining both them and the animals with hardly a word spoken. But he appreciated their compliance nonetheless. He was afraid if they had asked him to slow and try to reason with him, his mind would snap.

Still, they made good enough time in their reckless urgency to cover three-quarters of the journey until finally one of Alistair’s men spoke up as they neared the outskirts of a small town tucked just inside the borders of the arling. “Alistair, the horses can’t go on like this. They’ll die before we make it to the keep; we must stop to let them rest.”

Alistair had to concede; normally his sympathy for the animals would have been much greater, but he would not deny his every sense had focused on nothing but finding Ingrelda, his every nerve ending pleading to the Maker she was still alive. He knew that if the horses perished in the open roads of their travel, time would be drawn out longer than if they stopped here in the village. Ashamed, Alistair offered his apology to the horses in the form of treats bought from a local vegetable merchant after his companions convinced Alistair to stall the horses.

They also managed convince Alistair to seat himself in the local tavern and get something to eat and drink. Belatedly he wondered if he had cared so little for his needs not because he didn’t have an appetite, but that he felt he didn’t _deserve_ to care for himself until he knew of his love’s fate—as if his own wellness would never matter until he knew what had become of her. But like the horses, he knew it would do no good to drop on the final stretch of the journey.

They stayed the night at the inn, but even before his companions awoke the following morning, Alistair had already made his way to the local stables where the mounts from Weisshaupt were being cared for. He would not wait a moment longer now that he’d met the minimum requirements for his own survival. 

The stableboy was maybe fourteen, hardly a shadow of chin hair even beginning to poke through his boyish face, but his hands were already calloused from honest work. Alistair had been too delirious to make conversation the day before, perhaps too fearful to ask after the arling. Alistair’s companions completed the transaction of handing over their horses’ reins to the young lad and guiding Alistair to the inn for food and rest.

But now in the brittle milk-blue of the breaking dawn, Alistair approached the boy with such somber determination that it might have been misinterpreted as aggression. The stableboy’s eyes widened but he stood his ground as he was leading a horse of his own by the reins toward the food troughs.

“Ser?” the boy ventured, his soft voice shattering the still twilight around them. Hardly another person was stirring in all the town.

“Have you any word of Vigil’s Keep?” Alistair asked, surprising himself with the weakness of his own voice, so contradictory to the rigidity of his posture. “The darkspawn armies, what’s happened?” 

Sensing Alistair’s desperation rather than intimidation, the boy’s posture softened and he reported quite earnestly, “Oh, ser, I’ve only heard some passin’ words through the streets so I cannot speak to the truth of any rumor, but I’ve heard it was… bad. But the soldiers at the keep fought so hard as to hold against the darkspawn for a week! But the numbers were just too great, ser; they say the castle’s fallen to ruin.”

_No no no no no._

The boy may as well have shot Alistair with a bolt, but he fought to keep this news from lessening his resolve—it was still so soon. There was no way to be certain of any word before seeing the situation for himself. Still, he asked on, voice strange in his own ears as if he were merely a vessel for someone much smaller and frailer pleading through a tight throat. “The Commander—what of her? What of the city proper?”

“Even less word there, sorry to say, ser.” The horse feeding at the boy’s side had begun shuffling as it picked up the tension in the air, rolling from Alistair in waves and the boy’s own sympathetic nature weighing down his tenor. He could know nothing of who Alistair was and who the Warden-Commander meant to the ragged man in front of him, but the anguish was plain in his shadowed features suggesting an age far greater than his true years. “The city was overtaken before help even arrived, but there’s been talk of enough survivin’ citizens and goods for the people to rebuild. Any survivors from the keep have relocated to the Chantry, but as far as how many Wardens made it, I don’t know. They’re probably still lookin’.”

This would have to serve as Alistair’s guiding hope to complete the last leg of his strenuous journey into Amaranthine. He nodded to the horse at the boy’s side. “The men who came with me will stay here until the mounts we arrived on are well enough to return home. But I need a fresh horse; how much?”

Sensing the older man’s resolve, the stableboy informed him the horse at his side was not for sale but a perfectly spry stallion in the neighboring stall was available. Alistair did not even wait to hear the price, money nothing more than a vague, dispensable concept anymore, and he tossed the boy his entire pouch of remaining sovereigns before setting off.

Now alone on this new, young steed, burdened by even less supplies to hinder his progress, it was only two days before Alistair could see the silhouette of the Vigil through the mist in the distance. He knew it only by recalling the location on a map, for the shape itself was unrecognizable as a castle. There was an eerie silence, and pillars of smoke rose, darker grey than the fog surrounding its crumbled towers. Alistair swallowed hard, the images in his mind more than making up for the lack of detail he could make at this great distance. There was no point to stray from his path to the city to investigate; the keep was destroyed, and he knew he would find nothing save but a few men searching for survivors and salvagables. The truth he was looking for would not be there—or at least, the truth he was hoping for.

The good news was that it was plain the darkspawn had since evacuated the surface, though the ravaged lands from which locals both noble and common were trying to pull any faction of revivable worth was too familiar to Alistair and his memories of the Blight not yet even a year prior. He did not stop to ask after Ingrelda any further though as he made it closer to the city proper. He did not dare eavesdrop on the growing conversation as the population grew denser. Alistair would face the raw truth for himself now as he approached the city’s walls.

The stableboy’s word had been true enough—the refugee village outside the gates seemed to have taken the brunt of the assault from the dark armies, obviously the least-defended part of the City of Amaranthine. But all the same, people had begun to rebuild already, spirits high in contrast to the bloodsoaked dirt beneath their feet. Alistair had caught passing words on the wind despite his best efforts to remain deaf to rumor that the darkspawn’s ogres had been heavily armored, sounding far more formidable than any he himself had faced.

For the first time in what had to be ages, Alistair caught himself really and truly praying to the Maker with all his silent might: _Please, don’t let this blood be Grel’s._

Alistair had subconsciously been preparing himself for the worst as he nodded to the supervising city guards by the gates—gates that were broken, he couldn’t help noticing as he passed under the chipped archway on foot, having dismounted and left his horse with one of the ranchers trying to rebuild outside the city. His prior blind hurriedness had vacated his movements, and Alistair felt as if every bone had doubled in mass as he slowly trudged through the city, drawing out this prelude of uncertainty the closer he made it to the one place he could hope to find Ingrelda.

His eyes absently scanned the streets around him, taking note of the charred sections where fierce fires had been extinguished, some still smoking, and several buildings shattered to rubble. The cobbles on the streets and the stones in the walls glistened with still-wet blood that several crews had since begun trying to wash into the gutters.

As he ascended the stairs in the farthest quarter of the city toward the Chantry, his mouth became ashen and his knees liquid the closer he drew. But as he reached the doors, a fresh wave of strength passed through him, just enough to straighten his posture as he entered, unsure of what he expected to find within.

Just inside the chantry’s double doors, Alistair halted; there was more bustle than he might have anticipated. Sisters and brothers and Templars alike hurried with poultices and water and signed gestures over the various forms of wounded men and widowed women, orphaned children. It was a somber image on its own, but the energy of the soldiers and citizens who were strong enough to help others counteracted the gravity and even provided what Alistair might have considered hope—after all, there was no use hurrying in a situation where nothing could be done. 

The thought jolted him into a renewed state of urgency—his own slowed pace had allowed room for the sense of defeat to nestle within Alistair’s mind and chest, and he would not succumb to the darkest possible truth before having the starkest proof. So he strode forward to a group of armored men near the dais at the rear of the building, and as he drew closer he recognized a shock of familiar red dwarven hair.

“Oghren.” Alistair hadn’t even been sure he had spoken the name aloud, or audibly, until the grisled features redirected their attention toward Alistair.

A beaming, if weary—and likely inebriated—grin spread across Oghren’s face as Alistair grew closer, and in his heart Alistair had to believe seeing one familiar face was a positive sign he would soon see another, the one he most needed to see. “Well, hang me from the rafters and call me a bronto’s nutsack,” said the dwarf, crossing his arms, “if it isn’t our pretty little prince. Hey, you look like what I threw up under the barstool last night.”

“Alistair,” said another vaguely familiar voice before Alistair had a chance to respond. He took a moment to register the older man coming toward him with a warm expression, also softened in its exhaustion.

“Seneschal,” Alistair exhaled, the weakness his frantic journey had left him with continuing to sap his remaining strength as they spoke. A fatigued arm clasped Varel’s outstretched one in greeting, and the man nodded faintly. “Good to see you.”

Alistair thought he returned the nod but it didn’t matter enough to think about. “The Commander,” he said weakly, vocabulary becoming impossible to grasp as he nearly forgot how he even got here, legs threatening to buckle beneath him. “Ingrelda…”

The ache in his voice and the toll evident in the younger Warden’s features urged Seneschal Varel to clasp Alistair’s shoulder earnestly. “She fought so bravely—”

Alistair failed to bite back a gasp; before Varel had even been able to continue his sentence, the immediate past-tense preemptively sent Alistair pitching forward at last, gracelessly caught by a surprised Oghren with a muffled _oomph_.

“Oh, by the ancestors, let’s just get this kid to the Commander’s room before we gotta bury him in the pits with the other poor sods.”

Alistair lifted his expression with the first flash of valid hope he’s felt in weeks. “She’s alive?” It came out practically as a hiccup.

Oghren, not extraordinarily comfortable with such proximity to another man in his face, craned his neck back, but his stony facade didn’t conceal the warmth he felt for his old companion, knowing how obsessed he was with the Commander. Varel was already helping him to his feet, and Oghren offered to lead Alistair to the Commander’s cot.

Gratitude and dizzying, strained relief nearly blinded Alistair as he practically tromped on Oghren’s heels following the dwarf through the Chantry to a small, closed off chamber at the far side of the building, probably a storage closet turned bedroom for the Warden-Commander as she was given a quiet personal space to recover from battle.

Oghren waved a thumb at the small door behind him, confirming Ingrelda lie within. “Ehh, ya just might wanna hold off on the hot reunion romp—she looks like the darkspawn already gave her the rough stuff.”

Alistair barely registered the words over the rush of his heart pounding in his ears. Oghren left him be with a companionable pat on the arm, Alistair could barely get enough control of his fingers to open the chamber door. Carefully, as if worried of startling something on the other side, Alistair stepped through...

...and there she was.

She was sleeping on the piled pallets and pads that served as a makeshift bed in the closet lit only by a single sconce on the wall by the entryway. The dim ember glow flickered and caught her features with just enough light to reveal to him the welts and bruises and bandages peppered across her skin, seeming far too many—and these were only the ones he could see. The injuries left him with a sick feeling that was directly contradicted by the elation at seeing her chest rise and fall with steady breath. 

Fresh, confirmed, indisputable relief in seeing her here, alive, well-enough… Alistair made it to the bedside just in time to fall to his knees again, but this time he managed a little more control for in spite of his entire body wanting to scoop her up in exaltation and hold her so tight it might hurt, it was plain she needed and deserved this rest. Again he found himself sending a silent, genuine prayer of thanks to the Maker. _I won’t ask for anything again._

He wanted to let her sleep, but Alistair couldn’t resist drifting a trembling hand toward her face, his fingers carefully brushing along her jaw into a gentle caress—

A punch like lightning through his skull sent Alistair tumbling backward, shock muting the pain and turning it to pleasure as the most wonderful sound in the world reached his ears in a bleary slur.

“For the _last_ time, I—Oh, no, Maker I’m sorry, my nerves—my reflexes are just—are you—“

The voice caught itself, and slowly Alistair worked his jaw as he pulled his hand away from his smarting face to look right into Ingrelda’s eyes.

They both sat wide-eyed in the lowlight, their tense breathing audible in the moments it took each of them to really register and believe what they were seeing right across from them for the first time in what felt like centuries. There was an electric stillness that lasted only the duration of a few racing heartbeats before they were scrambling forward on hands and knees, Alistair half-crawling up the bed and Ingrelda half-hanging off as they flung themselves into each other’s arms in a clumsy, twisted, unnaturally-positioned embrace that pinched Alistair’s shoulder and probably strained something in his knee as he twisted to hold her in whatever way he could. They might have thought they looked ridiculous had they any mind to think of being seen, but in this moment, no one else in the world existed, and though Vigil’s Keep had been obliterated and Denerim leagues away, they were home.

Each of them trembled in weakness from their respective recent strain, as well as relief and wonder at seeing and touching the other at last. They laughed and sobbed weakly, their frames wracking with tempests of unadulterated joy. They shifted their awkward position enough so that their mouths crashed in a tactless kiss that was less about the action itself and more an additional means of pulling themselves ever closer together. Still, the pinch of a bony, rushed embrace knocked their teeth and they pulled themselves further pulled apart as they laughed at their own gracelessness, giddy in their own disbelief to pull at anything even resembling words just yet.

They held each other firm, Alistair half-mindful of Ingrelda’s injuries, not wanting to make them worse but incapable of relaxing his embrace, and as the hurry of their desperation began to ebb in the exhaustion that was quickly reclaiming their bodies, they separated just enough so that Ingrelda could cup his face, her hands cool on his flushed skin as she took in the lines of his deep worry, the shadows of his sleeplessness, the paleness of his staved appetite as he had abandoned all biological need to make room for his encompassing focus of returning to Ingrelda, of finding her alive. 

All the while he lifted his own hands to rest atop hers still on his face, himself taking in the marks upon her skin that would soon fade into shadowy souvenirs of this entire grueling experience, torn between a useless, belated need to shield her and pure indulgence at knowing he’d rather see her like this than never again.

Ingrelda’s features softened and a quirk of the lips cracked through Alistair’s own facade as they said at the same time: “You look like shit.”

They laughed again, pulling each other into another embrace, this one more slow and deliberate, the initial urgency having seeped from their limbs and now they sat more comfortably.

“It feels so good to hold you again,” voiced Alistair, to which Ingrelda’s response was to place a tender kiss on his cheek.

They were very quiet for a time, the only movement their syncronising breath and the subtle rocking motion Alistair didn’t realize he had been doing. He thought he wanted to make some witty quip, some clever remark to summarize all he had gone through worrying for her and all she had confessed she had gone through in her letters to him. But his wit was dormant and his unhindered emotion was free to eke out through the tears forming in his eyes, as he buried his face in her neck, not caring that some of her hair had gotten in her mouth as he breathed, “ _I thought I lost you._ ”

“Come on,” she said, pulling away to frame his face with her hands, “you gotta know I’m harder to get rid of than that.” Her lips lilted in an effortful smile, trying to keep her tone lighthearted, but there was no masking the deeper shadows within her features at this distance.

Alistair knew Ingrelda had been through much in their time apart, but she had been through much before then and it had never shown so heavily on the surface. He had begun to wonder about what further meaning had been behind the words in her letters, the way her voice had subtly shifted into something wearier, more exposed. Even the way she was looking at him now was different. It was like a final guard she had been holding up all this time had at last fallen away, and before Alistair was a new vulnerability he had never seen from her before.

He realized he had long ago learned and accepted it wasn’t as easy or natural for her to wear her heart on her sleeve in the way he was wont to do. He knew it was part of what had taken him so long to not only understand the way he had begun feeling about her, but to confess such feelings—Ingrelda was simply not an open book. Alistair knew much of the reason why was rooted in her past, though it had at first frustrated him because he was bad enough at picking up on blatancy let alone minutae; it seemed impossible to pin down her indirectness as avoidance or dislike or something else. 

But in their time together, he had begun to learn. Gradually, he had begun picking up on the nuances of her behavior that revealed the softer parts of her, and it even made him begin to appreciate the wall she still bolstered around her, because it made those glimpses behind the barrier even more special. He had thought that if he presented himself to be of a similar nature, it might have put her more at ease around him so he could see even more from her, but in the process of doing so he discovered he was not a master of discretion or smoothness or subtlely, and it was not long before it turned out Ingrelda was the one always putting _him_ at ease.

For a long time he felt he needed constant reassurance from her that he was not mistaken in their feelings, that she might not find him as special as he did her. He never elucidated this, but his insecurity was never exactly a secret. Still, he did not miss the casual way Ingrelda had begun to do this for him in her own subdued way—meaningful looks from time to time; standing closer to him than need be; fleeting, innocent touches in passing.

Some of these actions could have been seen as so small as to be negligible by others, but to Alistair they were precious things, tender and grand as a sunrise. He knew he had truly begun to fall in love with her as he saw over time the way she put in such effort to make herself understood because he mattered enough for her to make sure he knew it.

They had each learned and tried to speak the others’ love language, and as such Alistair had come to know and love Ingrelda as she was, never wishing her to change, only wishing he would continue to always learn and understand her better with each day. And part of what he had grown to understand well was her subtle affect, how to recognize her warmth in what seemed to outsiders as iciness. 

So now, for her to be so close to him and for him to see such open emotion in every curve of her face, the slope of her shoulders, the raw sincerity of her touch… For her to be so exposed like this in front of Alistair was unfamiliar, and while maybe to anyone else a partner letting such a side show would be desirable—normal, even—this wasn’t like Ingrelda at all. His heart grew heavy.

Alistair swept her hair away from her face, half-heartedly tucking it behind her ear, his fingertips lingering like a ghost at the pointed tip. “What haven’t you been saying in the letters?”

As if she had been waiting for permission, Ingrelda sighed, but before she proceeded, she flicked her gaze over Alistair’s steel-clad form. “Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable?”

He felt the compulsion to make a smart remark about her just wanting him to undress to avoid the question, but he thought better of it. She was right—there was nothing he needed protection from in here, especially when he realized just how much he wanted to crawl onto the bed beside her and simply sit close, which would never be an achievable goal in armor.

He began to unfasten straps and pull on buckles, initiating the ritual of freeing himself from the metal cocoon, but as Ingrelda began to help, he decided to let her take over the process. She gave him a wry grin at his surrender, and he mirrored the expression, the brand of intimacy of this undressing much different than what might be classically associated with such an action.

She helped him out of the breastplate last, but her grip slipped, sending the metal garment crashing into the accompanying pieces already on the floor. The percussive clamor echoed loudly enough within the small chamber that there was little doubt it could be heard from without. Alistair chuckled, nervously looking toward the door as if expecting someone to come barging in to investigate. “You don’t think anyone’s going to come check on that?”

“It’s fine,” she said, laughing at her blunder. “They’ll just think one of the instruments fell over in the music chamber.” Smiling, she maneuvered her way backward to lie down, back to the wall, and to Alistair, even this brief separation, her touch lifting from him for the first time since he arrived, felt again like miles too many as he crawled on to the bed to lie beside her, closing the space at once as she shifted on her back and began telling the rest of her story.

She tried her best to begin where she had left off in the letters, but found herself jumping trains of thought as one detail reminded her of another until she completed that tangential topic and had to remember where she was originally going, to which Alistair would supply a series of words to trigger her memory. He had to admit there were times during her account that he began to focus more on how wonderful it was to simply be lying at her side again, listening to her voice and less on the words. It did not detract from the details of what she recounted, though, and after a time his attention was more focused as he was stunned by the events she had seen and survived.

The battle of Amaranthine almost had not been. Soldiers informed her upon arrival that it was a lost cause, that it was already destroyed, and too they had been intercepted by one of the talking darkspawn who acted as messenger on behalf of the Architect—he and the “Mother” were indeed on opposing sides. The messenger reported the latter was sending her armies to the Vigil and that Ingrelda should order her forces to return to help defend it—this was her last chance to do so.

The logical part of her that had begun trying to think like a commander had told her that was the best choice, but the part of her that she had always known and trusted told her to stay and find survivors, to not abandon the weaker of the two. Oghren had needed convincing, but he had previously confided in Ingrelda about his fears and regrets regarding his family. At that time she had encouraged him to play an active role in his child’s life, and at Amaranthine she had convinced him to fight for the city by asking how he might feel if it was his family in there, and she offered mercy to the messenger if he would stay and fight alongside her.

The image of Ingrelda recruiting a darkspawn, however temporarily, at first seemed unimaginable to Alistair as he recalled fighting their armies alongside her. He quickly reconsidered though and thought yes, of course she would. If he had been there Alistair knew he would have been hypervigilant, maybe even angry about such a decision, but to hear it simply recounted allowed him a clearer head, for he had known her for so long her reasoning made sense to him. She’d always had a bit of a spiteful streak, but she had also proved herself to believe in second chances, and that there were exceptions to every rule. Alistair wondered if perhaps it was because she had once felt the need for such a pardon herself.

The battle for Amaranthine was harrowing, but they managed to rescue the soldiers and families still trapped within, keeping the walls of the city standing so they could soon rebuild. Once it was secure, there was no time to waste in setting off after the Mother herself. It was in the depths of the Tevinter ruins in which the broodmother had made her nest that Ingrelda had been confronted by the Architect. It was he who had been responsible for the darkspawn “awakening,” and that he had achieved this by turning the Joining on its head: feeding Grey Warden blood to the darkspawn.

The words chilled Alistair to the bone.

The Architect further elaborated his reasonings were to free the darkspawn, that his kind were slaves to the bidding of the Old Gods, and if he could free them of these binds, he would stop the Blights from ever happening again. To Alistair it seemed too outlandish, and even though he was hearing this after the fact, he still didn’t trust the words of such a creature—especially when Ingrelda added that it had even been his actions that caused the Fifth Blight they had narrowly conquered. 

The Mother was in fact the Architect’s own creation, having undergone his ritual liberation and fallen mad to the newfound independence. It was then a rift began to spread amongst the darkspawn, that some that had been awakened followed the Architect, and some joined the broodmother’s armies in her goal to destroy her creator.

Ingrelda inevitably found herself having to essentially choose a “side” with the darkspawn, but she had chosen to ally with the Architect because they shared a goal of killing the Mother. Though mad, she had extreme power and command over her minions, and even with the aid of the ancient Tevinter battle relics and the Architect himself, Ingrelda and the others had barely escaped with their lives—they had all fallen unconscious from battle, and with only the adrenaline and power that came from a heart’s truest need in the heat of a moment, in the depths of a battle on which the lives of thousands, Fereldans and darkspawn alike, depended, Ingrelda summoned enough strength to deal the final blow and end the Mother once and for all—until Ingrelda too had collapsed.

The memory of such a close call, of such a horrific and intimate fight in which she had watched each of her companions fall, unknowing if they would ever again rise, if she would ever again leave the foul nest with any part of her still in tact… So recent in her mind it made Ingrelda break into a cold sweat and Alistair instinctually reached to clasp her hand in his own, the other reaching to brush the damp hair from her forehead. To hear how close he had been to not only losing her but in such a ruthless, horrible way made Alistair’s own heart skip a beat, but he had to remind them both to stay present, right here.

“The next thing I knew,” Ingrelda concluded, “I woke up here in the Chantry. Varel had survived the onslaught at the keep—by the time I reached the Mother’s nest, her armies had breached the walls, and the Vigil was lost.” She took a shaky breath, her expression crestfallen. She hadn’t looked at Alistair for the length of her tale, but now she rolled her head to find his gaze. “So many men died, several more missing… I do not regret my choice to fight for the city, but I cannot help but think over and over what more I could have done to defend the Keep—if I’d only had more time, I—”

Ingrelda caught her breath and fully switched to lie on her side now so that she and Alistair faced one another, still holding hands. There were tears in her eyes—something Alistair had never seen before in all the time he’d known her. Even in her efforts to convince him to engage in Morrigan’s ritual before the battle with the Archdemon, though her body language betrayed her desperation and conflicted, storming emotions, her eyes had at most only glossed over. But perhaps her time as Warden-Commander had been enough to take from her what resolve she’d had left.

As if reading his thoughts, or perhaps simply having them herself, Ingrelda’s face set themselves sternly once again as if feeling insecure of this new level of vulnerability. She quickly swept away the tear that had made it halfway to her chin, jaw clenched. A thousand thoughts danced their way across her features, telling stories Alistair could never translate on his own until at last all she spoke aloud was, “I don’t want to do this again.”

His own emotions brewing and blending deep in his core, Alistair sighed. “We don’t have to think about that right now.” He chose not to say much more, knowing he had never exactly had a way with words like a traveling bard or a smooth assassin or a wisened mentor might. So he did not try to be something he was not. He simply did what he felt he should, what he felt he wanted to do for both of them.

Alistair lifted his torso off the mattress, twisting so that his arms framed Ingrelda beneath him and he hovered over her like a shelter. He shifted his weight to his right arm so that his left hand could caress Ingrelda’s face as she rolled her head to meet his gaze, heavy and dull from the past days of driving himself to reach her side and all the strain of worry and homesickness he felt for her in all their time apart. “There is something I want to make sure I remember how to do,” he whispered.

Thrilled to see his complete tactlessness at changing the subject drew a smile from her, he mirrored the expression before bringing his lips to hers to taste the smile for himself. It was a light brush, almost nervous after all this time, but when Ingrelda brought her hands to either side of his face to pull him into a deeper kiss, it all came back to him as the most natural thing in the world. Alistair’s arms bent so that he could tuck one underneath Ingrelda’s back and pull her even closer, but he jolted as she immediately flinched with a gasp of pain.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers and withdrawing his hand. She was more embarrassed than anything, a hand flying to her face as Alistair flipped back onto his side. He pulled her hand away and kissed it, a little embarrassed himself in admitting he wasn’t feeling capable of anything further than just that kiss anyway.

They both needed rest, their bodies battered and worn and weakened, their nerves shot, their emotions and minds spent. The ages of tension and fear and ache now having all at once been chased away with the immense, inebriating relief of at last finding the other alive and safe and, more than anything, right next to each other; it was enough to drain the last of their reserves, and Alistair was sure they could sleep until the Dragon Age had ended.

Silently conceding, Ingrelda wriggled her sore body close as she could to curl up against Alistair’s chest, his arm, heavy with exhaustion draping over her frame. It seemed she fell asleep almost at once, and Alistair was not far behind, his last thought before drifting off was taking comfort in learning that despite it all, her hair still smelled the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) this could have honestly just been a one-shot reunion fic but I already wrote the letters portion so oh well i think it’s meaningful prelude
> 
> 2) this was actually very close to getting a mature rating for their reunion but for many reasons that was scrapped
> 
> 3) i have finished the awakenings campaign and i was legitimately the kind of sad you feel when you have to say goodbye to a friend you don’t know when you’ll ever see again like i love my warden i dont even cARE and i felt this fic in particular was a good way for me to sort of wrap up her story and giving myself some closure before i start playing da2, which will probably be super soon so in a few weeks you are probably gonna start seeing fics for that too lol
> 
> 4) the final battle in my playthrough was actually that close except it was Anders who stayed alive long enough until it was a race to the last hit to see who would win and it was a bloodpumper let me tell you
> 
> 5) thank you for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed this niche bullshit, have a great day, take care of yourselves

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on social media @sewerpigeonart where I post my art and also sometimes mostly shitpost :^) I also have a blog: The Fledgelings Guild


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